Bee Stings and Other Irritants

I got stung by a bee this morning.  Twice.  It had been a long time since I'd been stung, so at first I didn't know what had happened, thinking I had something scratchy in my bathing suit. 

But what became apparent fairly quickly was that I had a bee in my bathing suit.  What the little bugger was doing in there, I have no idea.  I apparently freed him from his distress while I was trying to determine what was in there and saw him walking across the right thigh of the suit.

And I smacked him (or her) dead, instinctively.  It was an instinctive over reaction on my part, resulting in the unnecessary demise of the bee. 

No big deal.  Plenty more where that came from.  Nothing he didn't deserve—after all, he stung me twice!  And what was he doing in my bathing suit, anyway?  Stupid bee.

Pretty standard.  And a lot of the time, my instinctive reactions are pretty standard—because they are instinctive!  We share these instincts, these standard reactions and their very commonness is what makes them seem okay.  And for the most part, as these reactions also stay within certain standard boundaries, they are okay  Bee stings, swat bee, bee dies.  Move on.

But this morning, I've got the time for some reflection.  The bee's motive was survival.  Even without any anthropomorphising, it's not hard to understand that.  It found itself caught in a strange place with something large and warm and moving and its choice to defend itself was instinctive.  We both reacted from the same place of fear—and his was far more understandable than mine.  I could have brushed him off my suit.

How often are my instinctive reactions within standard, acceptable boundaries, but also unnecessary and possibly hurtful?  I can think of times when, as a parent of young children, a lack of emotional elasticity brought on by fatigue or some stressor the children couldn't possibly comprehend, resulted in an overreaction to children being children, e.g., noisy, really, really inquisitive, engaging in risky behavior, and so on.

Today, my overreactions are much more likely to be internal than overt.  I read or hear something that rankles me and I get "bent out of shape" and have conversations with people who are not present and indulge in some thinking about what I'd do if I could....  Cop a resentment or, as I've heard it put, cogently, take poison and wait for somebody else to die.

Fork over my peace of mind, in other words.  I can do this pretty much anywhere at any time.  But, increasingly, when it comes to the behaviors of members of my own species, I try to remember to wonder why that person did, said, or thought that.  Maybe it's a momentary lack of emotional elasticity.  Maybe he or she just got stung by a bee.

My side, your side

My side, your side

Attention, oncoming vehicles:  If there is a car or truck parked on your side of the street, or a bicyclist, perhaps, occupying part of your travel lane, that does not constitute reason enough for you to cross the double yellow and assume part of my travel lane, forcing me across the white "fog" line and onto the (perhaps nonexistent) shoulder.

Nope.  You, dear other driver in the oncoming vehicle, are supposed to slow down or, God forbid, stop and wait until there is free space in my travel lane before proceeding.  Got it?  I know, it's hard to imagine that my safety and whatever it is I have to do in my shabby little life might actually take precedence over the utter urgency and importance of everything about you, but get over it. 

And while we're here, let's talk about YIELD.  Yield: give way, surrender, back down. 

This is clearly NOT the American way, especially on our roadways.  But I'm sorry, if I happen to be silly enough to going anything close to the speed limit and consequently driving in the right-hand lane of a multi-lane highway (particularly an Interstate, a designation apparently allowing those drivers in the other one, two or three lanes to have increased their speed exponentially since the last state border), I am unlikely to be able to move over for you and if I slow down, some semi is going to move my spare tire in to my back seat.

So yield, for God's sake.  What's it gonna cost you?  15 seconds?

And there in, of course, lies the rub.  You don't have 15 seconds in your tragically busy life.  You're so frantic and overwhelmed and out of time that if you don't keep moving your head's going to explode.

The problem on the roads isn't on the roads.  It starts way before that.  The problem, dear other driver, is so deep and labyrinthine and dark and gooey that I'm not going there.  How do I know?  Whahahahahaha!

You know what I mean.